Miss Witch Doesn’t Want to Become a Songstress

By the time Hestia returned to Arpeggio City, it was already 11 PM. Exhausted, she only wanted a good night’s sleep. After taking a quick shower, she collapsed onto her bed and soon, the quiet rhythm of her breathing filled the room.

While the residential area she lived in was silent, the world outside was undergoing significant change.

Bright floodlights illuminated the once dark and chaotic underground caverns. Under the watchful eyes of Federal soldiers, underground inhabitants were fitted with restraining bracelets and escorted to temporary detention centers. There, they would undergo interrogation and screening, with their future fates determined by review officers.

Those with minor infractions or younger individuals might be released after a few years, while those with poor attitudes or rebellious personalities could face lifelong confinement. Yet, even this was a better fate than those who perished anonymously in the underground darkness.

Though stripped of their freedom, many would find their lifespans extended compared to the underground world, where the average life expectancy was merely 25 years.

…

“Name?” asked the review officer from behind a reinforced transparent metal barrier.

“Bulu,” replied the hulking, mountain-like man sitting in the chair, his head lowered.

“What was your occupation in the underground?”

“I sold spoiled fruit to the people living below.” This statement wasn’t a complete lie—he had indeed handled such tasks for the gang.

“Oh? And where did you obtain this fruit?” The officer wasn’t inclined to take Bulu’s words at face value. Having been professionally trained in supernatural disciplines, he possessed certain lie-detection abilities that not everyone could evade.

“It came from supermarkets in the lower residential zones. They would discard spoiled fruit into the garbage stations, and we’d collect it beforehand.”

“And how did you access the garbage stations? There should have been surveillance and guards.”

“There were, but we made arrangements with the guards and shared some of the profits with them, so they wouldn’t stop us.”

The officer tapped his finger on the desk thoughtfully for a couple of seconds before continuing.

“Provide the specific location of the garbage station and the name of the guard you dealt with.”

“I can tell you, but I hope you don’t punish him too harshly. He’s just trying to make a living. The garbage station wages are very low.”

“No unnecessary remarks.” The officer’s expression remained unchanged.

“It’s the garbage station on the 67th underground level, R351 District, Row Street 12. The guard I dealt with was employee G183, named Klum, age 71.”

Hearing it was an old man, the officer frowned slightly but said nothing. He recorded the details into his terminal and then picked up a nearby communicator.

“…Yes, R351 District. Please send someone over to verify.”

After setting the communicator down, the officer resumed questioning, asking about Bulu’s childhood and upbringing.

…

This part was more challenging for Bulu. He wasn’t a legitimate Federal resident, and his identity records were fabricated after the fact.

“I grew up in the underground F23 residential area on the 69th level…” He recited the information based on the records prepared by Qiao Long, who had provided details from his own life experiences.

“Didn’t you have any friends or acquaintances from childhood?”

“Uh…” Bulu hesitated. He wasn’t particularly bright and struggled to come up with a convincing answer. Making something up on the spot could be risky and easily detected by the officer.

“I had friends back then, but I lost touch with most of them. I didn’t want to reconnect because I wasn’t doing well.”

Bulu did his best to stay calm and deliver his response slowly. This was advice from Qiao Long before they parted: when speaking to Federal review officers, stick as close to the truth as possible. Even when lying, the story should align with one’s real experiences to avoid detection.

“No friends at all? That’s hard to believe. Even if you’ve lost touch, name someone you were close with as a child. Otherwise, your words are untrustworthy,” the officer said, tapping his fingers on the desk, exerting psychological pressure.

“Stop hesitating. Give me a name,” the officer added, his tone growing colder.

“Fine. I had a friend named Holm. We were close when we were young, but we had a falling out recently,” Bulu said, desperate. He named Qiao Long’s childhood acquaintance, the man who had gambled away his money.

“Oh? Give me his exact address.”

“It’s…” Bulu provided Holm’s residence details.

After confirming, the officer picked up the communicator and placed a call. In the Federal system, residential addresses were linked to phone numbers. Knowing the address was equivalent to having the number.

…

After several rings, the call connected, and a groggy, lethargic male voice answered.

“Hello, this is the Review Office for Verdant Veil 7th District. We have a few questions as part of official business.”

“Review Office?” The voice on the other end sounded startled and anxious.

“Yes. May we proceed with the questions?”

“Uh… sure. Go ahead.” Refusing the Review Office wasn’t advisable.

“Do you know someone named Bulu, who claims to have been your childhood friend?”

“Bulu? Who’s that? I don’t know any Bulu… wait… ugh, fine. It’s probably him…” Holm’s tone was filled with irritation.

“He mentioned lending you money to treat your mother’s illness, but you gambled it away instead.”

“Nonsense! Who said that? Wait… it’s definitely him…” Holm sounded both exasperated and resigned.

“Yes, I know him. But don’t call me again. We’re not close. If he dies out there, I won’t care,” Holm said before abruptly hanging up.

The officer stared at the disconnected call for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He glanced at Bulu and remained silent for several seconds.

Just then, a report came back from the team investigating the garbage station.

“Yes, the station is run by an elderly man who’s been there for nearly 40 years. He admitted to selling discarded items to various people, including names like Bulu, Link, and Yoda. He claims to remember handling many such transactions over the years.”

“While his actions are technically illegal, they fall within the scope of duty violations and would at most result in a fine. Considering his age, imprisonment would likely be more of a privilege than a punishment. There’s little we can do to pressure him further.”

After hanging up, the officer tapped his desk again, contemplating for a few moments.

“You’re lucky,” he said finally.

“Though I still have doubts, we’re in extraordinary times. There are thousands more waiting to be reviewed, and I can’t justify spending more resources on someone like you.”

“You’ve passed. After one month of observation in detention, you’ll be conditionally released. However, any violation of Federal law within the next five years will result in your immediate re-arrest and severe punishment.”

He marked off the necessary items on his digital form and set his pen down.

“Value your newfound freedom.”

Though he detected some falsehoods, the officer saw that Bulu wasn’t inherently malicious and still had the potential for rehabilitation.

Hearing this, Bulu slumped back into his chair, drained of tension. It was only after a while that he managed to speak.

“Thank you for your kindness and leniency,” he said, bowing deeply in gratitude.

The officer, however, paid him no further attention and simply waved him away, already focused on the next case in the queue.